Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(62)
Director Comey said, “You know I will not speculate. Nor can I give out any information that might compromise our investigation. There are many leads we are following, myriad details we are working through. We will share those with you as we are able.” Comey knew he’d spouted the party line, no choice but to say everything and nothing at all.
Then came NBC’s Lois Nedrick’s little-girl voice. “Agent Sherlock, what are your plans now?”
Comey stepped aside and Sherlock moved close to the microphone. “The Bureau has asked me to stay on here in New York to pursue the investigation. After we have apprehended those responsible for these terrorist attacks, I plan to go home to my husband and son. For some R and R.” That brought a few laughs.
There was a jumble of voices before Mark Allen of FOX managed to outshout everyone else. “Director Comey, do you believe the bombing of the TGV in France today is tied to the attempted bombing of Saint Pat’s?”
There it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla.
Director Comey looked out into the sea of faces. His first inclination was to duck the question, but instead he said, “We are in contact with the French authorities and will continue to be. As yet we have no direct proof, but in my opinion, yes, there is no question in my mind the two acts are tied together.”
Mark Allen picked it up before Director Comey had finished taking a breath: “A newly appointed French minister was killed in that explosion. Vice President Foley and dozens of other high-ranking officials were in attendance at the attempted bombing at Saint Pat’s. Do you believe these terrorist attacks could have been intended not only to destroy national treasures, but to kill national leaders or specific individuals?”
Comey had expected that question, too. No one was stupid. “Let me say again that the FBI does not yet have information to tie the two attacks together. There has as yet been no credible announcement by any group taking responsibility for these attacks, or their stated goals. Both have the hallmarks of terrorist operations. But as you said, the attempted assassination of public officials in high-profile public venues goes beyond what we’ve seen from terrorist attacks in the past, and it raises serious questions.”
Harold Carver from NPR started to speak, but a stout woman shoved him from behind. As he windmilled to regain his balance, she yelled out, “Agent Sherlock, what about you? What is your personal opinion?”
Sherlock shot a look at Comey, who nodded. She said, “I personally cannot imagine what a terrorist supposedly feels when he’s managed to murder innocent people. Is he pleased? Is he dancing for joy at the sheer number of people he’s robbed of their lives? Is he convinced he is fulfilling his duty to Allah? Is his hatred so great for those who believe differently that their destruction is all that matters to him?”
She paused, shook her head. “Whatever those people’s motivation, they are not wise enough to represent God on earth. In my experience, many of them are violent psychopaths and self-serving egotists. I believe such individuals are behind these attacks.” Are you out there, listening?
Director Comey finished it. “Thank you all for coming. We will keep you informed. If you have further questions, please submit them to my office.” He stepped off the dais, ignored the loud tide of shouted questions. He paused to shake a few hands as he walked back into 26 Federal Plaza, surrounded by aides and all the agents. He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You just about invited the Strategist to come after you out there, Agent Sherlock.”
Sherlock never broke stride. I surely hope so. “Someone had to say it.”
MULBERRY STREET, LITTLE ITALY
NEW YORK CITY
Saturday night
Cal hadn’t realized he was so hungry until he took his first bite of spaghetti Bolognese and his taste buds sang hallelujah. Kelly laughed. “Hey, is that a spiritual moment you’re having, Cal? With your spaghetti?”
“I gotta say it’s better than my aunt Millie’s,” he said as he took another bite. “And I use her recipe. Eat, Sherlock. I don’t want to deliver a beanpole back to Savich.”
Sherlock was picking at her chicken parmigiana, hungry but too wound up to eat much. “I’ve got to get myself calmed down. It’s been an extraordinary day.”
Kelly took a bite of her caprese. “What better place to decompress than right here? I’ve been coming to this place so long, the owner put me on his Christmas card list. Yes, I’m Italian, in case you were wondering.”
Cal, who’d thought Kelly was as wound up as Sherlock, said easily, in a tone to invite confidences, “And here I thought Giusti was a famous Irish name.”
“Har, har.” Kelly tossed her napkin at him. He caught it midair, handed it back to her.
“Where in Italy do you hail from?” Sherlock asked her.
“Mind you, I’m not descended from the Napoli Giustis—they’re a tough bunch, to put it nicely. My family comes from the Dolomite Giustis, most of us born not ten miles from the Swiss border. Great skiers, most of us. As you might guess, both sets of Giustis claim to go all the way back to Romulus and Remus.”
At Cal’s grin, she went on. “My great-grandparents immigrated to New York in the forties. You really should taste my mama’s pizza—she makes the best pie, learned at my grandmother’s knee.”